I feel like I just got my first period. Or something.

So,
here’s the thing.

I got
taken out last Sunday. By a boy. A boy who is an old school friend, and who I
hadn’t seen in eleventy thousand years, and who emailed me as soon as he knew I
was going to be moving to London to say, Hey!
It’s been far too long! We gotta catch up when you land!

Obviously
I replied with, Dude. If you wanna take
me out and show me the town when I get in, the pleasure would quite literally
be ALL MINE. Because when I weighed up the pros and cons of being so damned
cheeky I decided that I’d rather put myself out there as
available-for-the-price-of-a-cocktail over preserving any dignity I might have
left and suggesting a much more budget-friendly paper cup of tap water in the
(free) park. Living the dream ain’t cheap, kids.

My
old school friend (OSF) doesn’t live in London, but has to come into the city
all the time for work, and last Monday he had an early meeting so came to town
and stayed in a hotel the night before. It was at this hotel that I was to meet
him.

What
first struck me as I arrived at his chosen inn for the evening was how fancy
it was. And how polar, somehow, our lives must be. My definition of a hotel is
somewhere you pay to sleep in advance, hoping the stains on the bottom of the
bed sheet are just accidentally spilt bronzer and not an accidentally spilt
bodily fluid or similar. Apparently his definition of a hotel is… well. I could
see myself in the brass door handles. Even Mama Janie’s house isn’t that spotless, and she prides herself on
being able to lick the underside of the fridge and still have it taste like
lemon bleach.

I
have never in my life felt more like Billie Piper in Diary of a Call Girl than I did when I had to approach the
reception of that hotel and say to the pristine lady behind the desk, Hello. Could you call up to Mr. Old School
Friend’s room to tell him Laura Jane Williams is waiting in the lobby for him
please. Much obliged.

It
was the most adult moment of my life.

Turns
out OSF hadn’t actually arrived, and minutes later I had the second most adult
moment of my life. A text message came through: Delayed. Grab a drink in the bar and put it on my tab- I’m on my way.

PUT
IT ON HIS TAB? That, my friends, is a classy move. Any single guys out there
reading this (heeeeey…) TAKE
NOTE: telling a chick to put a Hendricks and Slim ON YOUR TAB says three
important things:

1.     “I understand that tardiness
is a weakness, and you have every right to be pissed at me.”

2.     “But I know you are a lady,
and would appreciate a moment to check your eyeliner and knock back a shot
before we meet after all this time.”

3.     “I am man enough to provide
for you unquestioningly. I’m not
asking you get a drink- I’m telling you.”

Which
is all a bit Christian Grey.

But
then, yeah. About that. OSF arrived, we knocked back another gin, and headed
out to a restaurant he’d had the foresight to book. Now, this wasn’t a date in the romantic sense, it was
totally a friendship thing, but oh
dear Internet: if it were a date? MAJOR POINTS.

My
crazy friend Manda has this theory that love is measured in time. Sexy love,
romantic love, family love, platonic love-the type doesn’t matter. What matters is that nobody ever really knows
how much they are loved, you can’t touch love
or taste love or tangibly feel love- but you can get a pretty good estimation of how
much time somebody spent thinking
about you from, for example, how they plan out a friendship date after six
years of little to no contact. And from that, you know they care.

My
OSF had booked us a table at the 53^rd most romantic restaurant in
London, (says him) to which I was all, oh?
I didn’t even warrant the top ten? because I get very unsure in the face of
nice gestures and ruin things by making bad jokes that make everyone more
uncomfortable than if I had just said what I was thinking, which was OHHHH! HE DID PLANNING! THAT’S SO SWEET AND
LOVELY AND KIND!

He
just went right on ahead as I was in the bathroom and ordered an aperitif which I’ll come straight out and admit:
as much as I say I am all independent
woman and I’ll decide what I’m drinking and when, the whole taking charge and
making decisions thing? GOOD STUFF. By the time we’d ordered first courses and
main courses and puddings and coffee I was well on my way to understanding that
boys my age? Not boys anymore. Whilst I’ve been off Christopher Columbus-ing
the shit out of the rest of the
world, sleeping with inappropriate youngsters and wondering why it never quite
worked out, the High School Class of 2004 have been busying becoming men.

And
that might be my new favourite thing.

OSF
is just that- a friend- but after he insisted on slipping the cabbie the cash to drive me home in Classy Move Number 876, my inner feminist chilled out just long enough
to agree when the next morning over my breakfast my brother’s fella said to me,
‘A man did something nice for you. Just appreciate that for what it is: nice.’

A MAN
did something nice for me. Which kind of makes me think that if I want more men
in my life- and after that glimpse I’m quite certain I do- I’m gonna have to
stop playing the little girl card, and step up to the plate to be a woman.



And that shocks nobody more than it shocks me.

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